


Happenstance

by TabithaJean



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Mulder and Scully go for a walk, Post-Episode: s11e06 Kitten, Pre-Episode: S11E07 Rm9sbG93ZXJz, and talk about the deep and the banal, set during the strange s11 times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabithaJean/pseuds/TabithaJean
Summary: In the lead up to Rm9sbg93zxjz, Scully unexpectedly runs into Mulder in Bethesda one Saturday afternoon. They walk and talk.Prompt: "Give me the lead up to the sushi date - who asked who? Was it carefully planned or something that happened spur of the moment? They seem fun and playful at the restaurant, so I think the lead up scene(s) would be, too, but totally up to you!" This is for @suilven :)So much thanks to @Frangipanidownunder for her beta read, and for challenging me to make it better.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58
Collections: X-Files Episode Fanfic Exchange (2020)





	Happenstance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suilven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suilven/gifts).



A tap on the shoulder makes Scully jump, almost losing her phone and keys to the busy sidewalk as she gasps. Mulder steps into the evaporating condensation like a magician’s reveal.

‘Scully!’ He rubs the top of her shoulder while her hand presses into her chest, coaxing her heartbeat to slow. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Jesus, Mulder,’ she exhales as she pulls him out of the path of determined shoppers. ‘It’s fine. What are you even doing here?’

‘Visiting my favorite bookstore.’

‘Your favorite bookstore?’ She arches her eyebrow. ‘Your favorite bookstore is here.’

He shrugs, youthful in his black zip up hoodie and sneakers. A paper bag dangles from his middle finger. ‘It’s true. I don’t know what to tell you. I was just leaving when I saw someone stride out of Lululemon with such fierce determination that I had to see if it was you.’ She smirks at his description of her gait. ‘And I was right. How’s the car?’

‘I don’t know yet. It’s still in the shop.’ The February air pinches her cheeks, and she puts her hands, bare and cold, in her armpits to warm them. ‘I’m just killing time until they call to let me know the damage.’

‘Oh Scully, if they’ve not called yet, you’re in some serious trouble.’ His smile mollifies her cynicism and dissolves her annoyance. ‘But, since we’re both here, why don’t we get some coffee?’

*

Her fingers throb to the rhythm of the coffee shop as heat rushes back into them. She nabs a table next to the foggy window while Mulder carries two mugs piled with whipped cream. In the spirit of unexpected surprises, she receives hers eagerly, tucking her sugar-free diet to the back of her mind.

‘So, what are you really doing here, Mulder?’ Scully asks, carefully wiping the remnants of whipped cream from her lips. The chocolate is sweet and burns her oesophagus. She looks at him expectantly, assessing how much actual chance featured in this chance encounter.

‘I told you. Sure, I knew there was a slim possibility that I might bump into you, but I’m genuinely here for the bookstore.’

‘Must be some bookstore if you’re willing to do a ninety-minute round-trip.’ She studies his face for his usual tells, but his eyes are clear and without guile.

‘It’s a _great_ bookstore, Scully,’ he confirms. ‘It’s a little second-hand place a few blocks back from Bethesda Row. I got lost in there for a couple of hours. Do you know it?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t. But I’d love to go.’

‘I’ll take you next time.’

‘Thank you,’ she says warmly, deciding to take him at face value. That morning, he had contracted with clenched teeth when she mentioned her intention to stay at hers for the rest of the weekend. She was grateful he hadn’t challenged her inane chatter. His words, trapped in the rounded pop of his tightened jaw, would have pierced her arguments as keenly as arrows on a target, ripping straight through her supposed scant sartorial selection at Farr’s Corner, or the convenience of being in the city while her car is in the shop. He offered her the benefit of the doubt, and she extends the same courtesy now.

Weeknights with Mulder are a treat as old routines infuse with new energy: car-pooling and discussing work over late-night pasta in the darkened kitchen, or the comfortable sounds of him leaving for his run while she steals his pillow, drinking in his sleep scent and snoozing for another hour. Weekends offer too much time for familial routines such as pancakes and shared newspapers. His heavy arm trapping her waist in the morning leaves her craving the illusive lightness of solitude. As he stirs awake, his face flashes with anticipation that she’ll still be there when he closes his eyes again in fifteen hours’ time. She can’t guarantee that just yet and guilt hollows her because she knows she’s not being entirely fair.

‘What did you get?’ She opens the bag to see _We Need to Talk about Kevin. ‘_ That’s an interesting choice.’

‘Yeah, it doesn’t seem like a light read. Looks intriguing, though.’

‘The narrator is extremely unreliable, but very captivating.’ She fans the pages as she speaks. ‘It looks at the intersection between subjectivity, personal responsibility and trauma.’

‘To be honest, I just got it because the cover looks neat.’

Scully smiles obligingly. ‘You’ll fly through it. It’s a real nature versus nurture tale, but also questions how much responsibility a parent has for the actions of their children.’

‘Kind of like Davey James,’ Mulder remarks, circling as always back to work. The crude violence of this particular case had nestled into the far reaches of her mind, ready to surface in nightmares involving hidden traps and toothless men-as-monsters in a forest dense with skeletal trees.

‘You think? How so?’ He tilts his head in approval as she takes the bait to discuss the case further. His skin glows in the brightly lit coffee shop: the outcome of her injection of fresh produce to his routine. She may not be able to give him Sundays just yet, but she can provide a balanced diet. 

‘Well, Davey’s acts could be viewed in two ways,’ he starts. Sitting in an armchair, ankle over knee, he has the air of a pontificating college professor. She imagines ideas spinning around his mind as pennies in a coin funnel. ‘A result of the trauma from his father’s incarceration, or the neglected collateral damage from a wider government experiment. They’re not mutually exclusive, either, but both show how the sins of the parent revisit the child.’

‘I don’t entirely agree, Mulder,’ she counters keenly, their discourse chasing away any lingering shadows. ‘He’s certainly traumatised by his relationship with his father. However, the missing link in your hypothesis is personal responsibility. Davey is the only person responsible for his father’s death, and for Skinner’s injuries.’

‘Only if you believe him capable of making such a choice. It seemed pretty clear that he wasn’t acting of his own volition.’

‘And _there_ in lies the mystery. It’s not a government experiment, it’s one man’s tragic personal circumstances.’ Her close-lipped smile is both absolute and inviting; he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. This is her favourite part: pouring over the outstanding questions like children licking cake crumbs from their plates.

‘What about Skinner?’ Mulder volleys back. ‘He corroborates Davey.’

‘Well, in the absence of any supporting physical evidence, I would challenge their credibility as witnesses. I’m sorry, but you want to talk about unreliable narrators?’

‘You think Skinner’s unreliable?’

‘I think it’s easier for him to believe in a conspiracy than to accept that his friend was most likely suffering from PTSD, to which he would also have been vulnerable.’ She runs her tongue over her teeth, counting them quickly.

‘Did you just check your teeth?’

‘No.’

‘You did! You checked your teeth,’ Mulder crows. ‘Can’t believe in the theory, can’t quite dismiss it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she murmurs, smiling into her mug. She feels jittery from the sudden onslaught of glucose in her system: she should have ordered food to mitigate this spike in her blood sugar. 

‘You can kid yourself, but I see right through you.’ He shakes his head, eyes crinkling. Tipsy with chocolate and coincidences, she chuckles at being so blatantly caught out. ‘We’ve seen this before, though, Scully. Remember that case with the Vietnam Vets and the sleep deprivation experiment… oh, it must have been in ninety-four.’

‘Hmmm, I don’t remember that one. But even so, that’s a pretty big leap to what we saw last week.’

‘I’m all about the big leaps. That’s how you earn yourself a basement office again some thirty years after first you join the bureau.’

‘You’re a man with a plan.’

‘Exactly.’ The air thickens in the subsequent pause and her neck prickles in the heavy heat. She rolls her sleeves up her wrists. When she meets Mulder’s eyes across the table, she sees within them infinite pools of kindness.

‘You wanna get out of here? Go for a walk?’ he asks, and she nods gratefully, putting the back of her hand to her head.

‘Yeah. It’s way too hot in here.’

He holds the door open as she scoots under his arm. His height is an ever-changing presence for her: an oppressive bulk under a shared umbrella, or a solid tree trunk against which she can shelter when feeling fragile. One of her favorite moments of the year is the safety and frivolity she feels when he lifts her to place the star on the top of the Christmas tree.

The streetlamps glow with florid fluorescence, and she takes Mulder’s arm. He clutches her elbow to his ribs as a talisman through the crowds, holding tightly until he relaxes once they’ve left the bustle of Bethesda Row.

‘How could we not have known about Skinner, Mulder?’ Scully sighs, the familiar cavern of guilt expanding in her stomach. ‘All these years. Are we that myopic?’

‘Don’t think that, Scully,’ Mulder says. ‘He’s a private man. He offered us what he wanted to.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Scully remarks. ‘I keep thinking about all the times he’s stood up for us. For me. I’m ashamed that we didn’t even have the curiosity to check if we could do the same.’

‘You know, he talked to me about it once,’ Mulder says quietly. ‘He told me what happened in Vietnam, how it affected him. When you were in the coma.’ She stiffens slightly as he continues, ‘There was so much going on. It was right when we thought…. Anyway, afterwards I just didn’t think about it again.’

They walk towards a nearby park. Scully glances into the houses they pass: the faces of a family reflecting the lurid glare from the television, a young woman playing the piano. Snapshots of lives that would remain unknown. 

‘He was discharged from hospital this week,’ she remembers. ‘Maybe we should invite him to the house next Friday. Make up the spare bed, open that bottle of Lagavulin.’

‘That’s a good idea. I’ll make lasagna.’ Mulder perks up with the responsibility of an action item. He nudges her with his elbow and leans towards her. ‘“Invite him to the house next Friday?”’

‘It’s still _our_ house, Mulder,’ she mutters through a half smile. ‘My name is still on the deed. I can invite whomever I want.’

‘Oh, ok. I just like to stay informed about things, you know. Being the main resident and all.’ Scully bristles at his mocking. Earlier, she had walked around the house noting small changes. Ornaments sitting on different shelves. The throw rug bundled on the armchair rather than the couch. She wasn’t sure if he was simply marking his territory or if it was a veiled demonstration that nothing quite works in her absence. His eyes followed her as he scrambled eggs in the kitchen, and she wonders now if he knew she was planning to stay in the city before she’d even suggested it. 

Scully’s phone rings, and they instinctively step away from each other. She watches his silhouette stuff its hands in its pockets, kicking pebbles on the pavement. The mechanic’s voice is mere background noise as she remembers Clyde Bruckman’s words from all those years ago. What had to have occurred to allow her this surprise moment of watching Mulder’s distinct lack of soccer skills under a sky lit mostly by moonlight? It’s too clever for luck, yet too trivial for God.

‘They want to keep the car until Monday,’ she says, scrolling through her phone. ‘Something about the serpentine belt. I’ll just get a Whipz back.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ Mulder says. She pauses, feeling the deficit from her earlier sugar high, and calculates that she has approximately ten minutes before she feels ill from hunger.

‘All right,’ she agrees. ‘We could get some food. There isn’t a Whipz available for a little while anyway.’ 

'See Scully? Can't fight kismet.' She takes his arm again. They are constantly navigating stepping-stones, she and Mulder. Carefully keeping above water, finding their equilibrium as they land on each new, slippery stone. She’s still working out whether to jump and be carried away with the current, or whether it’s worth continuing this balancing act until they reach solid ground together. She suspects the latter. They’re dealing with the layers of mistrust he unwittingly sowed during his darkest days, but her impression is that he experiences this process as he experiences gravity: feeling the impact but not seeing the force behind it. He’s twitchy and reactive in his impatience, and she knows she needs to lean into a definitive choice soon.

‘Hey, who would you select to write the novel of your life?’ He asks suddenly.

‘Ideally no one,’ she replies without a beat.

‘Ah come on, Scully. Don’t be so predictable.’

‘Ok. Hmm.’ She taps his arm with her fingers as she thinks. ‘Elizabeth Strout or John Boyne.’

‘Both a good calibre,’ he nods approvingly. ‘And why those two?’

‘Both are great at unpicking human relationships. Their imagery is so vibrant, yet their vocabulary so accessible. They spin gold.’

‘How are they at tackling unexplained phenomena?’

‘My _work_ story is not my _life_ story, Mulder,’ she says pointedly.

‘You know, I never liked _Olive Kitteridge_. It read like a description of character grievances rather than a novel,’ he teases.

‘That’s sacrilege, and I won’t accept it.’ She skips over a puddle and blows the hair out of her face. ‘What about you, who would you choose?’

‘Well, it would take a confident author to tackle the Mulder family. Someone who can handle betrayal, perseverance, sacrifice, a brilliantly attractive yet misunderstood antihero…’

‘Hemingway?’

‘Scully, I know Hemingway occupies a place in your heart forbidden to mere mortals. But if I want someone to actually read this novel, I’m _not_ choosing Hemingway.’

‘Ok, how about…’ She stops abruptly, and smiles at him, her wide smile, the one he loves which makes her top lip sit plump and lazy like a cat’s tail. ‘Dr. Seuss? Tackles the big subjects, very accessible.’

‘He _does_ have a wide audience.’

‘ _Fox in Plots_ ,’ she offers.

‘Well, that’s only a half rhyme, so you don’t get any points.’ She giggles at his assessment.

‘You’re right, I can do better. How about _One Ship, Two Ship, Gray Ship, Spacesh_ ip?’ Her giggle builds into a laugh which dances and sparkles like champagne. 

‘Ok, we’re done with your suggestions. Thank you for your help.’ Still laughing, Scully wipes her eyes as she calms.

‘No, no, I have one more suggestion,’ she gasps. ‘A proper one. Of sorts. John Grisham: good with conspiracies, good with mystery, entertaining, _very_ popular… you’ll be read by all the pool sides of Europe next Summer.’

‘Almost certainly movie material. That could be our retirement fund.’

‘Do you make any money off the first movie?’ Her eyes widen in surprise.

‘We’d negotiate better this time,’ he tells her. She giggles again, and it’s like waking from a dream when they find themselves in the brightly lit shopping district again.

‘How about we try here?’ Mulder gestures at the store front next to them: Forowā. Large and clinical, it’s the first place they’ve come across.

‘It’s empty, Mulder.’ She fishes her phone out of her bag and opens her browser.

‘So what? It’s also only five-thirty.’ He leans in to read the menu. ‘Japanese, looks quick, easy…’

Her instincts tell her no, but so far the afternoon has offered a plate of such unexpected delights that she is loath to refuse now.

‘I could do sushi…. It’s got a lot of five-star reviews on Yelp.’ She looks up at him and grins generously. ‘Let’s give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?’


End file.
